The Sussex Vampire
by footshooter
Summary: Based on the Conan Doyle tale and turned into BBC Sherlock - I've been wanting to do this for so long now! Sherlock is back from the dead, reputation in ruins, and extraordinarily bored. So, with no cases on, he travels to Amberley, dragging John along behind him, after the strange tale of a vampiric lady gets passed his way. Rated T for swearing and possibly disturbing imagery.
1. Prologue

**a/n: good evening! Or, you know, whatever this is when you're reading it. **

**I'm just adding a quick note here because I want to dedicate this story to someone who's rather special to me. She's inspired Sherlock fics in the past, over on LJ, she's dealt with my madness and, bless her, she looks after me and she's been there for me through some pretty nasty business I've been dealing with that, as an internet friend, she probably (a) doesn't want to hear, (b) doesn't need to hear, and (c) probably shouldn't care about. But she does care, she listens and she's extraordinarily supportive even when other people don't get it or don't really help with what they say and she's basically an all round amazing lady who I'm extremely lucky to have found and even more lucky to have her put up with me. So, I dedicate my Sherlock comeback fic to her, and c'mon, I don't need to name her coz I don't know if she'll want that out there plus, really, by now she should _know_ who she is coz I promised I'd send her the link coz I'm too lazy to multi-chapter on LJ, and that's all that matters.**  
**So I'll keep being _scarily weird_, and one day I'll teach you to play guitar (not violin) and I didn't actually pass out from the pain in that driving test (even though I promised I wouldn't tell you if I did anyway, I promise I didn't - still failed though!) and you're still there to call me your 'little genius' and be a brilliant friend and it's truly, truly lovely and I hope you will be for a long time to come. **  
**Much love. **

**Sorry to everyone who isn't the one person that was about, but everyone needs to gush sometimes!**

* * *

In the nursery of a rather grand, old house sat a young woman and a small, male child. The woman, devoted as she was, enjoyed spending time with the baby in her care and, also, tried to make time for his older brother. But the boy was by now fifteen and more concerned with computer games than being blinded by her stories as he once was, and so would shout if he needed anything.

She'd been brought into the family unit five or so years previously; the elder boy's mother had just died and they needed someone to keep him company. She, at the age of 21, not long qualified in childcare was eager for a job and found that, even though the boy was clearly devastated by his mother's death, he had a lot of love to give out.

After an unfortunate accident in his childhood, the poor lad was left with spinal injuries and couldn't walk far, but she'd push him around the parks nearby in a wheelchair and tell him stories and fairytales and was always grateful to him for being so happy and friendly despite all of the hardships in his life. She'd heard horror stories about the children in the care of some of her friends and told herself on a regular basis that she was a very lucky lady.

The boy's father had remarried not so long back to a nice Peruvian lady, and the boy's whole demeanour had changed. He was fearful around the house, twitchy and sullen, becoming introverted. She'd tried her best to snap him out of it, but the only response she gained was shrugs and mutters of 'the woman is a vampire'. She was concerned at this statement, but he was a teenager and fully able to access the realms of cert15 (and 18) films so she assumed he was just projecting. His stepmother was foreign, after all, and younger than his father, so it was reasonable to believe he was referring to her being a money-grabber by elaborating into fantasy creatures. He loved his little brother though, and cheered up considerably outside of the house when she took them on walks, telling her tales of school and girls and how his legs were progressing. Advances in medical science, a number of operations and a lot of physiotherapy, meant he could now _walk_ in the park (without the help of crutches now too) and it warmed her heart to see. The children felt like her own, and she didn't like seeing them unhappy.

This feeling meant she'd brought up with the boy's father the subject of Jack's apparent hatred of his new wife. Robert Ferguson frowned, he appeared anxious for a moment and then snapped out of it to assure her it was the plight of many a young boy whose father had remarried to give in his entire life and focus all of his energy into disliking her. Emma Mason apologized, stating it was her job to care, and Robert had patted her on the shoulder and assured her he was glad he'd found someone to look after his children who did truly care that much. Emma had smiled because, really, this was high praise indeed.

So now, she was sitting, playing with young Luis, a boy of just under a year old, who spent more time with her than his own parents, while Jack played on the computer in his bedroom. It was raining, or else she'd've dragged him out for a walk. She was sure Mrs Ferguson was somewhere in the house, working in her study doing something with fashion or something pretentious instead of talking to her family. Who had need of a baby when you had fabrics and a job to do?

"Emma?"

Emma set Luis down in the cot, where he mumbled unhappily and let out a squeal of distaste, and poked her head out of the door in the direction of Jack's room.

"Yes?"

"Come and see this!"

She smiled at the boys enthusiasm and turned to pick up the baby when Mrs Ferguson appeared, smiling, in the doorway.

"Go and see," she said in a heavily accentuated voice, and Emma was struck once more by how Jack could dislike a woman who seemed so kind. She nodded as the lady picked up and played with her son, heading down the hallway with a smile. She walked into the room and headed for the computer where pictures of the recent Venus transit covered the screen.

"Wow," Emma said, and Jack beamed.

"Cool, innit?"  
"Very!"

Jack kept clicking; showing more and more vibrant and detailed pictures of the Sun. Robert popped his head around the door.

"Emma, where's Luis? He's crying."

Over the noise of the music from Jack's computer, Emma had to strain to hear, but the baby was definitely screaming.

"Is he on his own?"  
"What? No! He's with Adriana."

They all left the room to the nursery, a weird sense of foreboding setting into them as they filed down the corridor.

"Adriana? Are you alright in there?"

They were greeted with silence. Emma frowned, pushing the door open to the nursery. She stopped dead, stunned, and then she screamed. Robert pushed her aside and gasped.

"What the hell are you doing?"

Mrs Ferguson had her teeth clamped to the screaming baby's neck. She pulled away, her eyes widening, blood trickling down her chin and the baby's neck. Robert rushed forward, snatching Luis from her arms, horrified.

Jack pushed past Emma, pointing at his stepmother.

"I _told_ you she was a vampire!"

Adriana glanced at the boy, opened her mouth to speak, and then, seemingly determining it as a lost cause, let out a sob and rushed from the room, down the stairs, out of the door and into the next-door house of her Peruvian friend whom she'd came to England with and given a job to as housekeeper.

Emma and Robert exchanged a disgusted glance, before looking at a shaken Jack and a screaming Luis. Robert handed him over to Emma and muttered, "Stay with him," before rushing out after his wife.

"I _told_ you," Jack mumbled once more, and Emma nodded, taking an antibacterial wipe and cleaning the wound on Luis' neck.

"I know," she said, trying to stem the bleeding, still in a state of shock. "I know."


	2. Boredom

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Taptaptap.

Taptaptaptaptap.

Tap.

Dr John Watson looked up from his paper, stared directly at the figure sitting opposite in silence for at least a minute and wondered how someone who self-confesses to notice _everything-that-goes-on-ever_ can be so oblivious to when he's being extraordinarily annoying. And when people are staring at him in an exasperated sort of way.

And still, the tapping continued.

"Sherlock."

Tap.

"_Sherlock."_

Taptaptap.

Sigh.

Taptaptaptaptap.

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock looked up, blue eyes meeting John's and a scowl on his face that suggested that _John_ was the one being unreasonable and not him. Nothing changed, then.

And he was still bloody tapping.

"_What_ John?"  
"Can you stop the," John gestured with his face from behind the paper, "Tapping please. It's driving me mad."

Sherlock tapped loudly and unrhythmically on the table surface just to be petulant and then suddenly stopped, threw up his hands and leaned back against the back of the chair. He sighed.

"What else am I supposed to do, John? What do you suggest? I cannot spend my entire day watching people fail at _the Chase_."  
John shrugged, "You seemed to be enjoying it enough before."  
"Only because they were grown men who were shouting 'yes' and punching the air when they got questions right. They deserved to lose."

"Wallowing in other peoples despair. Nice."  
"I'm _bored_, John. And you know what happens when I'm bored."  
"You shoot the walls, dig knives into the tables, upset Mrs Hudson, somehow find eyeballs to blow up in the microwave, never clean up, play your violin completely tunelessly, don't get dressed, use too many nicotine patches, wind up your brother by texting him and calling him fat, draw on the wallpaper… I mean, do I actually _need_ to carry on?"

Sherlock scowled, "My mind-"

"_Rebels at stagnation_, yes, I know. But it's your own bloody fault."

Sherlock looked completely and utterly affronted and folds his arms over his chest to prove it, "How did you work that one out?"

John raised an eyebrow, "Well, you're the one who faked his own death and convinced the world he was a fraud…"

Sherlock pouted, "I did _that_ to protect _you_."

"To protect me?" John asked, disbelievingly. In truth, he'd heard this story before and _knew_ it was true. But right now, Sherlock wasn't tapping, and that was a good enough incentive to keep winding him up.

"You and Mrs Hudson, yes."

"You know, for a sociopath, you're not very… sociopathic."

"I am."  
"Sociopaths don't ruin their reputation and pretend to commit suicide for their friends. Come on, admit it, you care about me."  
"Of course I… You're a very good colleague. And you're remarkably not dull. Even though you're sat reading the paper when I'm _bored_."  
"Are we _friends_, Sherlock."

John couldn't resist _the_ _Inbetweeners 'friend'_. He even did a thumbs up. He realised he was probably too old to watch it, of course, but like that had ever stopped him doing anything before. Sherlock was too old for tantrums and not being able to cook, but he still got away with it. So therefore John was allowed to reference _the Inbetweeners_.

Sherlock pouted and looked away, finally realising that John was winding him up. John smirked at his small victory and wished he had his phone handy to find the Trololololo clip. He instead made do with going back to his paper.

"I'm _bored_ John!"

John sighed, scanning the adverts for something to do. His eyes hit a spot and he looked up with the flicker of a smile appearing on his face.

"We could always go and harass the ghost-hunters again."

Sherlock's face actually lit up.


	3. Ghostbusters

They were wandering the corridors of an old, damp, unkempt building with a naturally creepy air surrounded by mostly fat, tattooed women and lead by a couple of extremely hairy men. One of whom had asked Sherlock to stop texting previously and had pretty much placed himself right in the firing line for a dressing down.

"The ghost most commonly seen here is the spirit of a monk, who tends to be very angry and resentful. How about we stop and call out?"

John glanced at Sherlock, whose eyes were darting around the badly lit room.

"Is there anyone here with us now?"

_Camera, sensor, fan, natural draft, lighting in that corner controlled by a different circuit, man hiding behind that curtain over there._

"If there's anyone here, make a noise."

Sherlock scoffed to himself; he was surprised they weren't just going to jump out on them with a man behind a sheet. Although, maybe they were. Amateurs. Good job Mycroft was paying.

"If there is anyone here-"

The man was cut off by a loud banging noise behind them and Sherlock raised an eyebrow at John as he turned, arms still behind his back, and the horde of women gasped.

"Do you want us to leave? Tap once for no, twice for yes."

The banging occurred twice.

"Charming chap," John muttered, and Sherlock smirked, turning back to the man leading the group.

"Maybe we should move on," he said. "I don't want anyone getting hurt."

The women all nodded, scurrying towards him. John wondered whether he should take up scaring women as a job, if it meant that they all clustered around him in reviere. Then again, he looked at the women, and decided no. He probably wouldn't.

As they were leaving Sherlock sidled up to the man, arms still clasped behind his back. John followed like a faithful little puppy or something, and tried his hardest to ignore how that must look. Sherlock coughed,

"Oh, is your friend not joining us?"

The man frowned, "Excuse me?"  
"You know," Sherlock pointed. "The one behind the curtain."  
"There isn't anyone-"

"Are you sure? I think there is."

Sherlock strode over to the curtain as the women all clutched on to each other, convinced there was going to be a ghost. Sherlock uncovered another hairy man, who muttered something about setting up cameras, and the lead hairy guy scowled at him.

"Lets go upstairs," he muttered, and stalked off, the gaggle of women still trailing his heels. John smirked and patted Sherlock on the back. Sherlock couldn't help but smile.

They stopped again in a room upstairs and the hairy fella started prattling on about a little girl who sang and smelled like flowers.

_Cameras, motion sensors, light in the floor, smoke machine, air freshener which activates when someone is standing nearby just about where he will move into in the end of the story, small speaker, remote wire for controlling the lights. A hidden electrical device under the floorboards (obvious, this one, from the pattern of dust around the floor), maybe an open laptop powering the remote devices, to bump up the EMF in that region…_

Maybe they weren't so amateurish after all. This was pretty well planned.

_Slight hole in the ceiling covered by pretty decent paintwork and the effects of damp, creaky floorboards, person probably – no definitely – hiding in the ceiling probably to…_

A coin hit the floor and all of the women jumped.

"Okay, everyone stay away from-"

Another coin flew through the air towards Sherlock's head coming from a slight crack in the wall behind a painting. Original, he thought, as he sidestepped the incoming projectile.

"Is there anyone in here with us?"

"No, they appear to be in the ceiling and behind that wall." Sherlock stuck his finger through the disguised hole in the painting and hit flesh. A muffled curse came through the wall.

The man was floundering, "I… ah… who wants to call out for the Poppy Girl?"  
"Can I-?"

"How about one of you ladies?"

The ladies were staring at Sherlock as though they recognised him but they didn't really know where from. John wished he had the hat with him. Just for shits and giggles. Not that this wasn't already hilarious, of course.

"Can I do it?" John asked, and, since he wasn't the one causing trouble, the hairy guy reluctantly agreed.

"Urm, if there's anyone here. Like, a spirit or something. Would you like to come and have a wander around with us? Maybe a cup of tea?"

Sherlock snorted, "Thank you for that, _Arthur Dent_."

"Shut up. I'm trying."

A breeze set up from the cleverly hidden fan and the hairy fella stood directly in front of the air freshener, which set off with a little hiss. One of the women wrinkled her nose, her extremely dark-rimmed eyes widening comically and her face morphing into the expression Mr Stay Puft wore when he fell off the building in _Ghostbusters_. John held back a giggle.

"Oh my God!" She shrieked, flicking her greasy purple hair back. "Can you smell that? Is that her?"

The man glanced over to Sherlock, almost daring him to try. John thought that was a bad move indeed.

"It may well be."

"Nah."

Everyone turned to look at him, scandalised.

"Excuse me?" The hairy man said with a glare.

Sherlock shrugged, "There's one of those air fresheners behind you. You know. The motion sensor ones. Probably in here to cover the damp."

"Mate, if you're not here to _believe_, I think you should leave."  
"I'm just saying."

John nearly pissed his pants at that moment. But he managed to keep a lid on it.

"Well, don't."

"I can't let you con these _lovely_ ladies."

Again, a dribble nearly escaped. The ladies looked annoyed at Sherlock and not the hairy guy, who John now reckoned was probably their cult leader.

"Let's vote," he muttered, rage in his eyes. "Who wants him to leave?"

Everyone but John raised their hands, and the hairy guy crossed his arms over his chest.

"Majority passed. Either leave, or I'll be forced to make you."  
"But I wanted to see the light effect with the smoke machine," Sherlock said with a pout.

Brilliantly timed, of course, since he'd managed to hack into their system, switch on the fans and get the lighting right and set off the smoke machine just after he spoke.

"Oh no wait, there it goes. Never mind."

Sherlock waved, grabbed John's wrist, and pulled him out of the house, disappearing into the streets before the hairy man could bellow in rage and chase them out, followed by a horde of very angry, mainly menopausal, hefty, heavily tattooed women wearing a lot of black, a lot of heavy make-up and a lot of silly colours in their hair, demanding their money back.

Sherlock and John power-walked through the streets in a fit of giggles up until John composed himself, glanced sideways at Sherlock and asked,

"Pub?"

"Gladly."


	4. Big Bob Ferguson

The pub they chose was small and out of the way and, on a weekday, only inhabited by the hardiest of all drinkers. Sherlock was still on a high as they stood at the bar, and his good mood was, as ever, infectious. They were waiting to be served and listening to idle chat around them when they honed in on someone talking about a vampire woman sucking the blood of her own child and how bloody foreigners shouldn't be allowed in the country because they were all freakish.

John rolled his eyes, "Someone's been reading too much _Twilight_," he muttered with a laugh. Sherlock remained completely blank.

"You don't… oh, never mind. I'm going for a piss."

On his way to and from the toilet, John heard two more people discussing the vampire and caught eyes with a man in the corner table who looked thoroughly worried and depressed supping beer on his own who looked vaguely familiar. The man was sitting up straight when John came out of the bathroom and smiled at him on his way past. John smiled back.

"John Watson, right?"

John stopped, thinking maybe he was recognised from the blog or something. He smiled.

"Um, yes."  
"You don't recognise me. Well, you probably wouldn't. I'm Rob. Remember? Rob Ferguson? We played rugby-"

"Oh, God, of course! Big Bob Ferguson!"

He leant forwards to shake the mans hand over the table, he smiled, but he looked worn and tired.

"How've you been, John? I hear you were knocking around with that Sherlock Holmes." Rob laughed sadly, "Shame about him, really. I could've done with his help."  
"Oh, he's not dead," John said, with a smile. "He… Long story. He's just at the bar over there, actually. Probably abusing the staff."  
"Oh, right. Wow. What're you both doing out on a Wednesday night?"  
"Would you believe we just got ejected from a ghost walk?"  
"Urm… why?"  
"Just for fun, really. You said you could do with his help…"

Robert looked down at his beer and blushed faintly, "You've probably heard the stories. About the vampire?"  
"Yes."  
"Well, I was there. I saw it."  
John frowned, "You saw it?"

"Well, yes, you see. She's my wife. And she was trying to drink the blood of my son."

John raised his eyebrows, "Oh. Right."  
"Do you think-?"

Rob nodded towards the bar, and John looked over his shoulder and shrugged, "I can always ask. Because you're an old friend. And because him not being bored might make him less insufferable. Everyone still thinks he's a fraud so he's not got a lot on and… well… I'll go and get him."  
"Robert smiled gratefully, "Thanks, John."  
"I'll be right back."


	5. Think of it as a favour?

John walked back over to the bar where Sherlock was standing with a pint and a glass of wine. John reminded himself to restart the 'how to behave like a man and not a snob in pubic' classes again.

"You took your time," Sherlock muttered, without looking at him.

"Yeah, I ran into an old friend."  
"And now you want to introduce me," Sherlock said, wrinkling his nose.

"Kind of."

Sherlock could sense there was more, "Go on?"

"You know those vampire stories?"  
"Yes. Completely ridiculous. Vampires don't exist. I mean, really. Walking corpses that can only be held in the graves by a stake through the heart? It's complete madness."

"Yes, all of that very true. But my friend over there. He kind of… saw it."

Sherlock's eyebrow rose, but John could tell his interest was pricked.

"Yes. It was his wife trying to eat his child," John said. "Apparently. I said I'd have a word with you; see if you can shed some light on it."

"Me? I'm a fraud remember?"  
"Not everyone thinks that, Sherlock. The word is spreading. Think of it as a favour to me. Just, talk to him?"

Sherlock sighed, but picked up his glass, "Alright." He ushered John away with an extravagant flourish of his arms and John grabbed his pint, rolling his eyes. "Lead the way."  
"Stop treating me like a Victorian woman, Sherlock."

Sherlock laughed.


	6. Introductions

John was leading them to the table in the corner. Sherlock knew from afar that this had to be the man.

_Wedding ring recently removed, married twice, divorced once, second marriage going through a rough spell (that's what happens when you try to eat the children), two children, one from each marriage, one quite young. Not sleeping well, drinking away his problems on a regular basis, high paid job – not manual in the slightest – desk work going by the slant of his shoulders and posture – probably a solicitor. One dog, brown and white, rather short haired – probably a spaniel. _

"Sherlock, meet Rob. We used to play rugby together back in the day."

Sherlock snapped out of his deductions, set down his glass, hung his coat on the back of his chair, put on his most charming smile and held out his hand. Robert took it and shook it with some reluctance.

"Mr Holmes, I thought you were dead."

Sherlock shrugged, "I faked suicide and made myself out to be a fraud to prevent John being killed by a madman. A madman who everyone now believes is, in fact, an actor I paid to make me look clever." The last sentence was grated out through gritted teeth. Robert glanced at John, shocked. John shrugged.

"You faked your death to look after John?"  
"Yes." Sherlock looked at John, "Why is that always so hard to believe?"  
"Because you're an arse a lot of the time."

Sherlock scowled, John smiled sweetly at him. Sherlock sipped some wine. Robert continued to stare at him like he was the most interesting thing he'd ever seen. John sometimes forgot his friend was somewhat… eccentric, and that it wasn't exactly easy to just cope with all of his personality at first. Sherlock wrinkled his nose.

"How about you tell us what happened, Rob?"

Robert opened his mouth, but Sherlock held up a hand. John was about to chastise him for being rude, but Sherlock muttered something about also needing to urinate and flounced off into the bathroom.

John was left wide-eyed, as he usually was, and with the need to apologize for Sherlock's rudeness at the forefront of his mind. Robert looked at him. John realised he probably should've warned him before he dragged him over, but he had been concerned he was upsetting the bar staff and that they were going to be chucked out…

"He's…" Robert searched for the right words.  
"You get used to him."

"He _faked his death_ and _ruined his reputation_ for _you_."

John swallowed his sip of beer, "Yep. Seems mental, but essentially, yes."  
"Are you two-?"

John was now so used to this question that he almost wanted to just say yes so that people would stop fucking _asking_. Instead, in a light voice he calmly said,

"No. We're not."

"Oh, sorry."  
"Not a problem. Everyone thinks we are. I'm considering pretending we are now just to shut them all up. Sherlock probably wouldn't mind. In fact, he wouldn't even notice. And if he did he'd just use it as a way to sabotage any dates I have in future. Which, now I think about it, he does anyway. So really, it wouldn't change my life at all in any way."

Robert laughed, "How's Harry?"  
John shrugged, "She's okay. Back with her ex-wife and off the drink. My near death experiences seem to be having a calming effect on her."  
Robert nodded. Both men drank more beer.

Sherlock stalked back over to the table and flopped down on to the seat. He looked at John, and then at Robert, and then back to John, and then back to Robert.

"Go on then." He said, exasperated that he actually had to _prompt_ it and his arrival wasn't enough to get the ball rolling.

John was, once again, going to chastise Sherlock, but Robert looked up from his glass and Sherlock looked down at his, and Robert nodded.

"Of course. Well. The whole thing goes something like this…"


	7. The Case

"I remarried around two years ago. Everything seemed to be going fine. I mean, my son didn't like her, but kids are kids and she was trying her best. It's kinda like being in Peter and Carla's house in _Corrie_, you know?"

John and Sherlock looked blank.

"Or, maybe you don't. I mean, I've been domesticated with soaps and early nights. I imagine your house is more exciting."

John glanced at Sherlock, thinking of him sitting on the sofa, depressed, staring into space and refusing to talk and thinks, yeah, _Coronation Street _would probably be preferable actually. Sherlock shrugged,

"At times."

"Anyway, Jack became a bit… iffy. And if me or Emma-"

"Emma?"  
"The nanny. She's worked with us since Jack was ten, when his mother died. But she kept trying to bring the subject up and he would just shrug and say nothing. So she asked me and normally I'd put it down to what I had been for the time, but he'd talked to me the week before. Actually started _crying_, you know? And that's worrying for a fifteen year old lad. But he said that Adriana had hit him."

"Did you believe him?"  
"No. Well, why would I?"  
"Did he have any visible marks?"  
"None at all. I accused him of being selfish and told him to grow up and he didn't talk to me for days. But he snapped back, you know, as kids do. I mean, he's disabled – you wouldn't _hit _your disabled stepson. I mean, yes, they rowed. Mainly once Luis was born, but I refused to believe that she'd raise her hands to him."

Sherlock and John knew precisely nothing about kids, but John nodded nonetheless.

"Anyway, Emma asked me about the apparent hatred one day and that got me thinking. Like, someone else has noticed, what's going on. But again, I brushed it off."  
"But now you're not so sure?"  
"Well no."  
"Because you believe she's a vampire?"

Robert scowled, "Well, no. I mean… no. I think maybe _she_ believes so. She's not from around here, maybe it's been drummed into her when she was a kid and… well, I'm not sure. She _seemed_ perfectly sane."

"How long did you know her before you got married?"

Robert shrugged, "A few months. Less than a year. It was love at first sight. Why wait?" His face saddened noticeably, "I just want everything to be back to normal, lads, you understand that, right?"

John glanced at Sherlock, who half smiled, his brain whirring. John understood better than anyone wanting things to be back to normal. It was the only thing he'd wished for when Sherlock was 'dead'. It was only once he was back, behaving as if nothing had ever happened, that John realised normal was most definitely an abstract concept to him. But he nodded, once.

"Of course."

"I just can't risk the kiddies for that. They're my flesh and blood, you know? I can't have her near them."  
"What did you see?"

"Well, Luis was crying and Emma had left him with Adriana while she checked on Jack. So we all went along to see-"

"All."  
Robert looked confused, "Well, yes. We all wandered down the hall because he was really screaming and we were concerned something had happened to him. Emma pushed open the door and she screamed, so I pushed past her and saw Adriana biting Luis' neck."

Robert looked disgusted and saddened.

"I obviously then took him from her and she didn't even _defend_ herself, you know? She just ran off and barricaded herself in the next door cottage. It belongs to her friend, Dolores. She came from Peru as well. I tried to point it that it wasn't really… correct… to pay her to do the housework, but she's a pleasant enough lady so I put up with it. Now, she won't come out and Dolores won't let us in. they've not left the place in two days."

"Have you considered involving the police?"

Robert sighed, "I don't know. It's such a ridiculous… I'm concerned they'll think I'm crazy. Or that she is. Or that, really, I've got the total wrong end of the stick and made a terrible, terrible mistake."

Sherlock paused for a second, head on top of his steepled fingers, and then nodded.

"Yes. I believe that you probably have."

Robert looked shocked and mildly offended, and John offered a warning, "Sherlock."

"What, John? You can't seriously believe that vampires are real."  
"No. But I believe that people can _think_ they're vampires."  
"No. those types of lunatic don't hide it too well."  
"My wife isn't a lunatic."  
"See. No, no. This can't be as straight forward as it seems."

"Then what do you suggest we do, Mr Holmes?"

Sherlock paused for a second, and then shrugged, "I don't know."  
"If you'd like to… I dunno… come to where I live, look around, I can pay you."

Sherlock waved his hand, "I don't need your money."

"Then what else can I offer you?"  
"When is the train?"  
"Tomorrow at 2pm."

"Okay."

Sherlock glanced at John and John shrugged.

"I'm game. He's an old friend, after all."

Robert Ferguson's face lit up, "Would you really?"

Sherlock nodded, and Robert stood up and grasped his hand, shaking furiously. He glanced at his watch, visibly brighter than he was before.

"I better head home, anyway. I've been here on business today. Emma will be worried."  
"You're a solicitor?"

Robert looked shocked, "How did you know that?"  
Sherlock opened his mouth to explain but John cut across him, "You don't want to hear the explanation. Trust me."

Sherlock scowled at John, but Robert smiled.

"I'll be seeing you both tomorrow then? I'll meet you at the station."  
"We'll be there."

Robert nodded, and then left the pub.

"So. Vampire hunting then?" John asked, and Sherlock laughed.

"I get the feeling it's much simpler than that. I just need to make sure."

"Don't show off, Sherlock. You don't have a clue."  
Sherlock shrugged and drained his glass.

"My round?" John asked, getting up.

"No. It's fine. Really."

John frowned as Sherlock practically leapt from his seat and headed over to the bar. As he was pondering it, John's phone beeped.

_Has my brother once again stolen my debit card?  
M_

John sighed. Of course; now it was oh-so-obvious. Mycroft was paying.

_Probably._

_I don't know why he doesn't just ask if he needs money._

_M _

Sherlock sat back down, smirking. John glanced up at him and sighed.

"Sherlock, are you using your brother's card?"  
"Yes. Why?"  
"He asked. He also asked why you don't just _ask_ if you need money."

Sherlock scoffed, "I don't _need_ his money."  
"Well, clearly you do."  
"It's more fun stealing it. Plus then I don't have to _speak_ to him."  
"Of course it is."

_He says it's more fun to steal it._

_He would. I should have guessed._

_M_

_Do you mind?_

_Not really._

_M_

John placed his phone back in his pocket and shook his head.

"You're a twat, you know that, right?"

Sherlock smirked.


	8. The Doting Wife

"Sherlock?" John shouted as he stood outside of the bathroom door with a bag in his hands. "Sherlock, are you seriously _still_ in the shower? We're going to be late."

One of the things John liked about living with Sherlock was watching him stagger around of a morning, bleary eyed, after a rare proper nights sleep. One thing he _didn't_ like was when that proper night's sleep came after a heavy night of drinking and Sherlock was staggering around at twelve forty-five when they needed to be on a train at two, muttering about finding a book.

The phone rang, and John answered it.

"Hello?"  
He rapped his hand against the bathroom door, "_Sherlock!_"

_"John, are you _still_ behaving as the doting wife?"  
_  
John sighed at Lestrade down the phone. "Seem to be. What's up?"  
_"Sherlock asked me to ring you,"_ Lestrade sounded confused.

"Did he?" John knocked on the door again. "Sherlock? Why-?"

Sherlock yanked open the door, clearly irritated, damp and with soap suds still in his hair.

"_What_, John?"

"Why did you ask Lestrade to ring me?"

Sherlock looked vacant for a second.

"Oh, of course. I want him to know where we're going in case he needs us."

"What? Why couldn't you tell him yourself?"  
"Because I don't know."  
"You do. Amberly. I told you this last night."  
"Last night is something of a blur."

_"Was Sherlock drunk_?"  
"Yes. Sherlock, have you even packed?"

"…"  
"I asked you to do that before you went in the shower."  
"Forgot."  
"How did you forget? It was all of half an hour ago?"

Sherlock shrugged, swaying slightly.

"I was reading about vampires."  
"Are you still drunk?"  
"… Possibly."

_"Why'm I still on the phone? And why is Sherlock reading about vampires?"_

"For… Get dried, I'll pack the bag for you."  
"How will you know which shirts I want?"  
"I'll… you'll just have to wear what you're given."  
"Can I have a cup of tea?"

"We don't have _time_."

"What if I get a hangover?"

"You'll just have to cope. Like I am. _I _currently feel like nails are being drilled through my skull _and_ I'm having to deal with a man who's behaving like a child."

"Hmph."

"_Hello?"_

"Sorry, Greg-"

"Greg?"

"Sherlock put some fucking clothes on before I hit you!" John snapped, pointing. Sherlock pulled a face.

The bathroom door slammed and John exhaled.

"_Deep breaths,"_ Lestrade said, and John could hear the smirk in his voice. _"Now, vampires?"_

"We're going to my friends place in Amberly because he thinks his wife thinks she's a vampire."  
_"Uh, right…"_

"Plus it'll stop Sherlock being a pain. I dunno why he wanted you to know this, but there we go. Now, the taxi's gonna be here in… oh, twenty minutes, and I still have to pack for Sherlock. So if you'll excuse me."

"_Keep out of trouble, John."_

"I'm with Sherlock. Like that's ever going to happen."

The phone line went dead, and John shoved it into his pocket. He walked past the bathroom door to get into Sherlock's room and paused.

"Have you gone back in the shower? Sherlock, I swear to god…"

"John, you're beginning to sound like Mrs Hudson. But at least _she'd_ make me tea."

John yanked out a drawer with a sigh and started packing clothes.

"Sherlock, I don't care. If you're not out of there in five minutes I'll _drag_ you out myself. And you can _buy_ tea on the way. We don't have time. I'm not missing another train because of you!"

Sherlock sighed and turned off the shower.


	9. The Train Journey

They managed to make it to the train. That was the plus. The downside was that Sherlock's hangover had kicked in and it was making him absolutely insufferable. John had predicted this, though, and _Greggs _had called before they'd boarded the train.

"Sherlock, drink the damned coffee, then the water, and eat the pastie."

Sherlock looked nauseated.

"Seriously, pasties help. It's corned beef. It's lovely, really."

Sherlock scowled at him and snatched it out of his hand. He took a bite, chewed, and then swallowed.

"That's actually not that bad," he muttered. John beamed.

"Told you so. It'll settle your stomach."

Sherlock sipped coffee and smiled back, briefly before returning to the pastie.

"How on earth do they make these taste so…" Sherlock searched for the word.

"Nice?" John asked. Sherlock nodded.

"It's probably the grease," John said, and Sherlock shrugged. "I feel better already."  
"Oh good. Does that mean you're going to stop being cranky and wearing sunglasses and start discussing the case?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow behind the glasses.

"What? It's kind of disconcerting when you're not blabbering."  
"It's not _blabbering_, John."

"Well fine. Deducting. Deducing? Whatever."

Sherlock laughed.

"Well, I have a few theories. None of which are that this lady is a vampire."  
"No, that would be mental."  
"Well yes. And neither of us are exactly Van-Helsing."  
"You know Dracula and not Twilight?"  
"I read a lot as a child."  
"A lot of Victorian gothic horror?"

"Yes. A lot of that. Anyway, I can think of a few reasons why she would be sucking on the neck of her child. But first, I need to see her, talk to the people around her. I need to make sure she is of sound mind, because, you are quite correct in your statement that people can actually believe that they are vampires."

"Rob said-"

"Rob is blinded. Why else wouldn't you contact the police when you found someone chomping on your child's neck?"

John had no response to this.

"No, we need to have a look around. We need to see the lady, the children, the maid, the household, the dog…"  
"The dog?"

Sherlock looked at John, eyebrow raised in an _oh-do-keep-up-John_ kind of way.

"Fine."  
"I'll figure it out. Don't worry about that."

"Sherlock, any doubts I may have had about your genius were obscured when you came back from the dead."

"It's not the first time I've done that," Sherlock said, his voice low, thinking back to more desperate times when the boredom was too much and he turned to anything he could to help. His hand unconsciously moved to the veins in the join of his elbow where he could almost see the shameful pinpricks of scars beneath his jacket, shining out like a beacon. He _had_ almost died then, lying on the floor of the flat in a heap after taking just a little bit too much. Mycroft had become concerned after Sherlock ignored even his most provocative texts insulting his intelligence. He'd beaten down the door and rushed him to hospital, sat beside his bedside for three days while Sherlock drifted in and out of consciousness. When he'd woken up, Mycroft had shed a tear, and they both promised not to tell their mother about it. It would destroy her, after all.

Mycroft had accompanied him to the pharmacy every single day after that for methadone to relieve the symptoms until, eventually, Sherlock got bored of the bright green substance and just stopped taking it. Once again, Mycroft sat with him until the shivers and the sweats and the violent rages and cravings died away, and when he was clean his older brother had patted him on the arm and told him he was _proud_.

Sherlock still got cravings, of course. Being an addict never truly left you. He would always, on some level, be a slave to opiods.

He wondered if John had ever noticed the scars, the shakes, the sweats, the desperation. As his eyes followed Sherlock's hand to his arm, his face concerned, Sherlock realised he probably had. It was testament to him that he'd never mentioned it. Sherlock realised he should probably bring it up, should probably explain, but he was so disgusted with himself that he didn't _want_ to. He couldn't have John thinking less of him because of something he was fighting. Something in the past.

"I'm sure it isn't," John mumbled, tearing his eyes away. "We'll be there soon."

John shut up and looked out of the window, watching the world rush by in the way it only can on a train as Sherlock drank more coffee and suddenly really wanted a cigarette.


	10. The House

They stopped at a pharmacy on the way to their meeting place with Ferguson, Sherlock buying completely the wrong strength of nicotine patch and applying so many in the toilets that John had to strip-search him in a very undignified way and peel some off.

"You are _not_ passing out on a case because of a NRT overdose."  
"John, stop fussing," Sherlock muttered, slapping him away.

"No. I will not."

Sherlock allowed him to remove the patches, sighing, and confiscate the box. They were leaving the bathroom as Robert pretty much walked into them. He apologised profusely, John laughing, and they walked back to his car, settling in and heading off to his house.

The house was set back in the countryside, a modest size, built using old bricks and stone with a cottage squatting to the left and a large yard with an open, white gate. John was impressed.

"Beautiful village."  
"It is, yes," Robert said with a smile. "Nice place to bring up the boys."

Sherlock was looking out of the window of the car, for once without his coat collar turned up around his cheeks. It was a warm day in July, and they'd seen no need for it (aka John had prised it out of his hands to prevent heatstroke before they left, which ended in Sherlock screaming for Mrs Hudson and sulking when she'd agreed with John). He looked slightly less imposing wearing just a suit jacket and one of his token dark shirts, sunglasses hiding his eyes. But John could tell he was enjoying the trip out of the city, and he was buzzing with repressed excitement for the case.

They stepped out of the car, John grabbing the bags, and walked into the house. Robert was almost immediately grabbed by a young boy, assumingly his son Jack, who eyed the two men in his house warily. Sherlock removed his sunglasses and clipped them on his shirt.

"Who're they?" Jack asked; his voice petulant.

"This is my old pal John and his friend Sherlock. They're here about your mother."  
"My _mother_ is dead," Jack spat, and Robert sighed.

"About Adriana."  
"She's nuts. Nothing they can do."

Sherlock stepped up to the boy and held out his hand. The lad glared at him, and Sherlock glanced at John, retracting his hand and standing back up to his full height.

"Dad," the boy said, staring up. "There's no point. You should ring the police or a nut-doctor or something."

Robert was trying to hold his temper, but his ears were going red.

"Well, I'm a doctor," John pointed out. "And he's a detective. So I think we'll be okay."

The boy still eyed them suspiciously, as if he didn't believe them. Sherlock, for once, didn't know how to act. They were saved by a young lady wandering around the corner, baby in her hands and a smile on her face.

"Here's daddy!" she squealed, and the baby cooed. John and Sherlock were instantly drawn to the bruise on the baby's neck and exchanged another glance as Emma handed the baby to Robert. Robert took him gladly, smiling, and Emma shook hands with the men.

"Emma Mason. Nanny."  
"John Watson."  
"Sherlock Holmes."

Emma's eyebrows raised slightly, "Mr Holmes. I thought you were dead?"  
Sherlock smiled, "Not quite."  
"Dr Watson, I've read your blog."  
"Oh, good. Great."

John was floundering over his words and Sherlock knew what that meant. He swung around to shake his head and roll his eyes at his partner. John mouthed 'what?' and Sherlock mouthed 'boyfriend' back. John looked momentarily upset.

"Hello little man," Sherlock said, waving at the baby who chuckled and waved back. "How are you?"

The baby held out its hand and grasped at Sherlock, who offered his finger out and the baby shook it, smiling.

"May I-?" Sherlock gestured to the baby's neck, and Robert nodded. "Of course."

Sherlock beckoned John forwards and they both examined Luis' neck carefully.

"What do you see?" Sherlock asked John, and John shrugged.

"It's a fairly old bruise. Most of the marks are fading. Not much we can get out of it."

"My thoughts precisely," Sherlock said, his fingers rubbing over the bruise softly to inspect the colour. A small puncture mark in the middle caused him to pause and scowl. Robert and Emma didn't notice, deep in conversation.

"Everything okay while I've been gone?"  
"Yeah. Daisy isn't very well, though."  
"No? What's wrong with her?"  
"I'm not sure, she seems tired and she's eating less."

Robert frowned, "Strange. How about Luis?"  
"He's okay. Still a little off, but, I guess that's to be expected."  
"Has Adriana-?"  
"Not a peek."

Sherlock was poking around, sniffing, running his hands over things. John was hovering, making sure he wasn't going to break anything or be offensive in any way. Jack was lurking in a room beyond them, out of sight, but listening. Sherlock caught a glimpse of his brightly coloured t-shirt and frowned once more.

"My wife only wants to see Luis. Not me. Not Emma. Not my son. Just Luis. But how can I let her?"

John nodded, "I understand."

"Can we have a look around?" Sherlock asked, and Robert nodded, handing Luis over to Emma. She muttered something about making lunch and wandered off.

"Okay. Well, I'll give you the tour."


	11. Curious

John could see Sherlock's brain working at speeds that made his own brain hurt. He could see that every single detail he saw was being categorised behind his eyes, stored, filed under necessary and unnecessary. John had long stopped trying to keep up and instead, just watched. It only took seconds per room, and then he'd ask some questions, the answers to which he'd also categorise in his head. He'd pick a few things up, set them back down, nod curtly, and then they'd move on.

He lingered in Luis' bedroom, sniffing the air. John tried to detect what it was that he'd noticed but couldn't pick up on anything. He supposed his senses were dulled, or Sherlock's fine tuned or something. Maybe he'd found another _Glade _air freshener.

Sherlock picked up the baby's blanket and shook it out; finding nothing, he placed it back into the cot. He frowned.

As they left the room and Robert went to check on the progress of dinner Sherlock sat down on the sofa, frustrated.

"So, what've we got?"

He shrugged sulkily, "Barely anything. I don't feel any further forwards. I need to speak to the mother."

"I was thinking that."

John sighed.

"What?"  
"I dunno. Just, his neck. There was the remnant of only one puncture wound in the bruise. Do you think she cut him to get to the blood? She can't've used her teeth."  
"I was thinking that too."  
"Could Rob be having an affair with his nanny, maybe?"

Sherlock shook his head, "No."

John shrugged, "I'm out of ideas then."

"No surprises there."

John was so used to the insults that he just rolled his eyes and chose to ignore it.

Robert popped his head around the door, "Alright lads? Just nipping down the vets in the village to get some medication for the dog. She's not needed it for a while but she's a little bit off and I think it might be starting up again. She fitted as a pup, you see. I'll not be long, but anything you need, just shout of Emma."  
"Alright," John said, and, with a wink, Robert disappeared.

Sherlock had that _look_ on his face again.

"What?"  
"Curious, that's all."  
"What's curious?"

"The dog."

Sherlock leapt to his feet and waltzed into the kitchen, John at his heels.


	12. Vampire

"Is this the dog?" Sherlock asked, holding out his hand. Emma jumped; she'd been humming along to the radio and hadn't noticed them come in.

"Oh, yes. That's Millie. Poor girl," she muttered as she cut up vegetables. "I think her epilepsy is kicking in again."

The spaniel whimpered and wagged her tail sadly, as though she was feeling very under the weather. Sherlock stroked the dog for a while, pensively, and then sat down on one of the chairs. Emma was watching him out of the corner of her eye, blushing slightly, and John almost rolled his eyes.

Typical. Women always fawned over Sherlock bloody Holmes. The man who was the definition of asexual.

They were chatting idly about the children, Jack's feelings towards his mother, the supposed beatings… Emma didn't know when they could have happened, of course, she was with him most of the time and when she wasn't Adriana didn't tend to be around.

"Where's Luis now?" John asked, suddenly, glancing around the kitchen.

"Oh, he's with Jack up in his room. They were going to play _Lego_ or something."

A flicker of something akin to concern passed across Sherlock's face and John's heart almost leapt out of his chest upon seeing it; but as quickly as it appeared it was gone and he was calm once more.

That was until the dog started growling and barking and under this noise came the wails of a baby. Emma dropped the knife to the floor and John and Sherlock were out of the seats quicker than they generally moved because even two, unrelated men had to respond to the screaming of a small, vulnerable child.

"Jack?" Emma screamed as she hurtled up the stairs with Sherlock and John on her heels. "JACK!"

Luis continued to scream and, somewhere underneath, Jack was sobbing. A woman was shouting. Emma almost fell over, crying herself, as she pushed the open door and hurtled into the room. Jack was sobbing in the corner muttering, "don't hit me," over and over and over again. Adriana was standing at the window with a screaming Luis, his neck and her mouth covered in blood. She spat it out onto the floor. Emma tried to compose herself.

"Adriana, please. Just give me Luis."  
"No."  
"Adriana, don't. Just give me him."  
"No. I want my baby."

John and Sherlock flanked Emma, walking in slowly behind her, arms raised.

"Adriana. I'm Sherlock Holmes."

Adriana frowned.

"I'm not going to do anything to you. John, check Jack."

John nodded and knelt next to the boy who flinched away from him with a howl. Adriana almost growled at him.

"It's alright. I'm a doctor. Where did you get hit?"

Sherlock's focus was on the woman as he continued to edge forwards. She was precariously close to the window ledge.

"I need my baby," she muttered, in a heavily accentuated voice. Emma continued her sobbing behind them and Sherlock wished that she would just _leave_.

"Adriana, tell me what happened here." Sherlock was calm as ever, and Adriana's eyes flickered to Luis, and then Jack and then Emma, and John and back to him. She shook her head.

"You would not understand."  
"Try me."

She paused again, "I cannot. I cannot explain."

Sherlock tried his hardest not to sigh loudly. He was so very close. With her help, he could crack it.

"Just tell me."

He was standing almost nose to nose with her. He leant his head forwards and he whispered something into her ear. She pulled back, eyes wide.

"No."  
"Give me Luis, Adriana. I promise I'll take care of him."

Adriana shook her head. Emma muttered something to John about the police. Adriana sighed, and gave the baby to Sherlock before jumping out of the window.

"What did you say to her?" Emma asked, suspiciously. Sherlock shook his head.

"Soon."

He handed the baby to John for him to take a look at, and then went into the bedroom and shut the door behind him.


	13. Deductions

It was left to John to explain what he'd seen (or at least what he _thought_ he had seen) to Robert when he returned. He was, naturally horrified, and it took a lot for John to calm him down and stop him from calling the police. John promised that if Sherlock hadn't made up his mind by morning, then they'd involve them. He just needed that extra bit of time.

In the room, Sherlock's head was driving him insane. He was so close to the answers, but he just needed that one last puzzle piece. It was all connected. Jack. The dog. The mother. The blood. Luis.

Images whirled around his head, his thoughts racing so fast he could barely keep up. He stood up, exasperated, and began to pace the little bedroom he and John were sharing. He stopped by the open window and sat down on the windowsill, looking over the garden outside.

The door opened behind him and John walked in, barely noticed.

"I convinced him not to call the police until tomorrow morning. I know that sort of puts you on a tight schedule, but I'm not sure what else we can do. I saw myself-"  
"You don't know what you saw, John. Nor do I. that's the problem. Something is deceiving us and I can't quite get my head around it."

John sighed, "Do you not think that the woman is just… mad. Post natal depression taking it's toll maybe? An incident in childhood resurfacing? It's all possible."  
"Possible, yes. Plausible, no. She didn't want to hand him over for more than just that she wanted _food_. She was _scared_ of something."  
"Sherlock, maybe you're just seeing what you want to see. I mean, no offense, but you've been out of the game for a while."

Sherlock's eyes hit John's, and Sherlock could tell he was concerned but he couldn't feel anything other than disappointment that the one person who still believed in him felt he was losing his touch. It hurt, somewhere in his chest cavity where he desperately tried to believe that there was nothing because if there was something he could be hurt and then what?

"Maybe you should get some rest, mate?" John suggested, setting his hand down on Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock tensed, and John took it away, not yet aware that this was down to more than simply a bruised ego. Sherlock's brain was still working feverously, but doubt was slowing it down.

And he didn't have much time left.

Adriana wasn't guilty. She wasn't mad. And she certainly wasn't a vampire.

John sat down on his bed and pulled out a book as Sherlock stared out into the garden in the warmth of the darkness.

Sherlock knew he was right.

He just had to prove it.


	14. Epiphany

**a/n: I apologize in advance for my awful need to write in an accent. But Conan-Doyle did it, tbf, and I am just copying off him anyway, so shout at his ghost and not me. :)**

* * *

A commotion woke John in the middle of the night. Sherlock was still awake, still staring into the garden, but in something of a daze. The spaniel was barking, people were running up and down, and a woman was screaming.

"What the hell-?" John asked, sitting up. He was still fully clothed, having fallen asleep where he lay, book beside him. Sherlock jumped up from where he was sitting, and John, for one, mental second actually thought he was going to switch on a light.

"I've got it," he muttered, almost astonished at himself. "Yes. Of course. I've got it!"

He flung open the door and ran down towards the stairs, where Emma and Robert were shouting at a Peruvian lady who was trying to convey a message. Once he noticed John wasn't following him, he rushed back and almost ran into him.

"Do hurry up, John. I believe Adriana has been poisoned."

John was confused, and his recently awoken state didn't help in any way, shape or form.

"What?"  
"Just come with me!"

They hit the bottom of the stairs in the middle of a far flung argument between Emma, Robert and the lady that didn't speak very good English.

"No. She will not see you!"

"I'm her _husband_."

"No, no. She want baby!"  
"The last time she had the baby she was sucking his blood," Emma said, her voice raised and high pitched.

"You do not understand!"

"We're wasting time," Sherlock said, and everyone turned to look at him.

"Yes. Adriana sick. She sick yesterday, day before she worse. Today she better but now she sick again."  
"She's been poisoned."

Robert looked completely stricken, "Poisoned? By who?"  
"That can wait."  
"She need doctor! Now, she need doctor! She very sick!"

"I'm coming," John said, rolling up his sleeves. "I'm a doctor." The lady nodded and they set off out of the house with Sherlock behind them.

"Do you know what poisoned her?" he asked Sherlock as they walked, and Sherlock nodded.

"I believe it is to do with one of the species of _digitalis_Mr Ferguson has on his land."

John muttered, "Shit." Followed by, "Okay. Dolores, I need you to call an ambulance right away. Can you do that for me?"

The lady nodded, pleased that someone was finally listening to her.

"She upstairs on left!"  
"Thank you. Tell them she's poisoned and we need someone here as quick as we can."

Dolores nodded and ran off into her living room while Sherlock and John rushed upstairs.

"Adriana?" John asked. "Can you hear me?"

Adriana nodded, "Yes."

John took her pulse and noted the tremors and bradycardia, and the vomit in the bucket beside the bed.

"Can you tell me what happened?" John asked, more to keep her awake than actually caring.

She shook her head, and glanced at Sherlock. Robert burst into the room behind them, pale and shaken.

"Adriana?"  
She looked at Sherlock again, and he nodded.  
"Tell them."

Adriana sighed, heaved into the bucket that John picked up, and then looked over at her husband.

"I did not want to tell you. I did not want you to know."  
"I need to know, Adriana. Please, tell me I'm mistaken."  
"He was poisoned."  
"Who?"  
"Luis. Our baby! He was poisoned!"

Robert frowned and looked at Sherlock.

"You have an incredibly potent chemical in your garden. _Digitalis_. A foxglove. The tiniest amount could affect a baby. Your wife happened to be in the right place at the right time at both attempts of your son being stabbed with the toxin on a needle. She, under no other medical knowledge, sucked the poison out with her mouth. Hence why she is now poisoned and your son is safe."

Robert glanced at his wife again, and grabbed her clammy hand, holding it in his.

"Adriana, why didn't you just tell me?"  
"I am so sorry. I could not. I could not upset you this way."  
"You upset me in a far worse way, Adriana. I thought you were hurting our boy when you were saving his life."

"The dog should also be treated for digitalis toxicity, as I believe the potency of the toxin was tested on her. I'll get Emma to take her to an emergency vet as soon as the ambulance arrives."

Robert nodded, still shocked.

"I'm so sorry, Adriana. So, so sorry."  
"It is fine, Robert. Do not worry."

"You've been _poisoned_. How can I not worry? Who did it?"

Adriana glanced at Sherlock, who looked at John, who looked back at Sherlock. Adriana started to sob.

"I did not want to upset you. That is why I covered it up. You must understand."  
"Just tell me."

Adriana's eyes were still on Sherlock, and he nodded again.

"It was Jack. Jack did it."


	15. I still don't quite get it

On the train home, John still hadn't gotten his head around the whole matter. Adriana was being treated in hospital, Emma had gotten the dog fixed, and that's about where they left. They were welcome to stay, but they looked after Luis (and Jack) until someone else could take over and then got on the first train to avoid the fallout.

Sherlock really didn't know how they would treat a silly little boy in a matter of attempted murder, or whether Jack knew the extent of his actions, and really, he found he didn't care. He was tired, he wanted a cup of tea, and he was on his post-case comedown and would really like his bed.

But they were on a train and his eyes were shielded by sunglasses so he could _probably_ sleep if he wanted to, relatively unnoticed, but John was staring at him as though he had a hundred and one questions and was just waiting for the right moment to ask them.

John's face contorted into something perplexed, and then he opened his mouth and the statement he'd been thinking since the whole damn thing was cleared up just spilled out.

"I don't get it."

Sherlock couldn't help but smile because, really, John was cute when he was confused.

"No. I suppose you don't. Would you like me to explain?"

"Yes. Please do."

Sherlock shifted in the seat so he was more comfortable.

"Emma mentioned to me that Jack had described his step-mother as a vampire on more than one occasion. She also mentioned that he'd been in and out of hospital as a boy, and, as such, was fascinated with medicines and treatments. Now, apparently, before Adriana got pregnant, she and Jack were almost starting to get along, and she was telling him a story about how her grandmother had sucked out the venom of some creature from a child when it was bitten, or stung, and how it had saved the child's life. Jack had told Emma a similar tale, but, as_ regular _people do, she had forgotten about it until I told her what had happened. He had said that Adriana came from a _family_ of vampires, and missed out the part about the poison. Emma had ignored it as the ramblings of a boy who felt he was about to get his nose pushed out by the baby Adriana was pregnant with.

"Now, Jack had loved his mother and his father more than anything since he was completely dependant on them. It took him a while to trust Emma and he _hated_ Adriana as he seemed to think she was coming in and stealing the love his father had for him. He's a boy, he doesn't understand these things.

"So, as soon as Luis came along, he went back to hating Adriana and started making wild accusations such as the one about her hitting him. He is, to his credit, a very good little actor. Just he would have convinced us all more if he'd worked out how to apply stage make-up. The lies angered his father, obviously, and he ended up feeling more put out than when he started. So, he started up the tales of vampires again, drumming the idea into a disbelieving Emma bit by bit.

"He then started to show an interest in his father's garden, and so had a lot of books about garden plants on his bookshelf. I don't know if you noticed this?"

John shook his head, "Can't say I did, no."

"Never mind, I didn't expect you to. Anyway, somewhere in those books I imagine there is a piece on the toxicity of digitalis, or somewhere on the internet while he was looking up all of the pretty flowers it states that it can have a toxic effect. So, piecing this together with the story of Adriana's grandmother removing poison by sucking the wound, jack decided to take a needle, extract some toxin from the plant, and, in Adriana's view or knowledge, stab his baby brother with it in the neck, causing him to cry out in pain and attract the attention of others at just the right moment.

"Obviously, this is where the stories of the beatings and vampires come in. As he'd already laid the seeds of doubt in the adults around him; it was an easy process to jump from the neck sucking to the Adriana-is-a-freak-and-isn't-safe-to-be-around theory. Jack obviously had counted on the act itself bringing about the issue and was probably positively gleeful that Adriana, in a false sense of protecting her husband from the deception of his son, wouldn't tell him the truth of what was going on. She fled into Dolores' house, her only remaining friend, and managed to successfully recover from the poisoning she'd attained, but was desperate to remove her baby from the boy and protect him herself. Which is why she was in the nursery, and, seeing she wasn't going to go away that easily, Jack had an argument with her and, foreseeing this and testing the toxin on the dog, stabbed his little brother again, leading to the scene we witnessed the other night. Obviously, upon removal, she ingested too much of the toxin and became ill herself once more."

John nodded slowly, taking in all of what Sherlock was telling him.

"Do you think he knew?"

"The magnitude of his actions?" Sherlock shrugged, "I didn't get to speak to him to ask. Probably not. He's a jealous little boy. He'd retreated into fantasy world, as seen by the books and dvds and decoration of his room. He probably honestly thought that his father would think his wife was a vampire and his son the spawn of evil and throw them both on to the streets where he would have full attention. Whether or not he knows he could be held accountable for two counts of attempted murder I don't know. And the charges are entirely dependent on his parents and their attitudes."

John sighed, "He probably just didn't know."  
"Not knowing costs people their lives."  
"Not knowing gives you a job."

Sherlock shrugged, "Is this our stop?"  
"I think so."


	16. Home

"I'll have to write this one up on the blog. It's too surreal not to. Plus I can ask Rob for a follow up. It can be like, _The Return of the Great Detective_."

Sherlock smiled, "I think I might go to bed before the boredom kicks in and I can't sleep."  
"Oh god, Lestrade better let you back into Scotland Yard if you're going to go all mopey again."  
"I do not _'go all mopey'_."  
"Yes you do. And you know it."

John unlocked the door to 221B Baker Street and let Sherlock inside. He ran up the stairs, dumping the bag on the floor of the living room and looking around.

"Mrs Hudson's tidied up again," he said, with an air of surprise.

"Has she? I thought she wasn't doing that for us anymore."  
"She's not our housekeeper, John. Remember?"

A rap on the door was followed by a "knock-knock!" The door swung open and Mrs Hudson herself popped her head around the door, smiling and carrying a tray and a pot of tea which she set down on the table.

"Cracked another one, boys?"  
"We have indeed, Mrs Hudson," Sherlock said, with a smile. Mrs Hudson beamed back.

"It's nice to have my boy's home. Place isn't the same without you!"

John smiled, "Mrs Hudson, did you tidy up?"  
She looked around and waved a hand, "This? Oh, I couldn't resist."  
"Thanks."  
"No problem, dear."

She took the tea towel off the top of the plate and revealed a cake, and started to pour the tea.

"Mrs Hudson, you spoil us," Sherlock said, with a smirk.

"And don't you know it!" She said, slapping him with the tea towel. "John, dear? Can you bring plates through?"

John wandered back in with three cups and three plates and set them down on the table, pouring the tea for Mrs Hudson as she cut them each a slice of cake. She then perched herself on the sofa next to Sherlock, and looked at them both.

"Well, go on then! Tell me all about it!"

**THE END**

Thanks for all the lovely comments left by everyone, I really appreciate the support. And particularly major kudos out to _egyptian1995_ who's been around since the start.


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